In the Next Life, Canto I, stanzas 87-105 revised

Now we’ll say you’re in charge of those who guard
the systems that deliver things up high.
Quite suddenly, your task has gotten hard.
This is the most important thing to fly.

You’re not expecting sabotage, of course;
your chief concern is theft of isotopes.
A lunatic would not know how to force
the failure of a job like this (one hopes).

So here you are: The launch is in a week.
Tomorrow the deuterium arrives.
A bunch of nuts comes swimming up the creek,
equipped with lineman’s pliers and pocket knives.

They’re brought before you, heretofore unhurt.
with hesitant defiance in each eye
Within each wetsuit is a printed shirt:
“The world will end real soon, and you may die”.

At first they try to claim they just got lost.
They meant to snorkel up another stream.
You have to have the truth at any cost.
Sometimes the answers might be what they seem.

Persuaded to reveal their true intent,
they say all humans merit being fried.
Beyond that, you have clues that they were sent
as cover for shenanigans inside.

So when an unnamed caller leaves a tip
that some employees plan a little raid,
you cancel reservations for their trip.
You find the damage, and repairs are made.

That would have happened had the plot gone well.
Your limited resources would be where
you found an intrigue and the schemers fell,
while something could be done that wasn’t there.

What really happens is you get two calls.
Two puzzle pieces weren’t where they belong.
Two groups of evil traitors take two falls.
The launch goes full ahead with nothing wrong.

If you were in the story in that role,
you’d never know what made these people spin
or how they harbored such a dreadful goal.
You’d only know they turned each other in.

You’d find out where they go and what they do.
Their lives would be your business from now on.
Their history and motives, though, to you
would be a mystery forever gone.

When you apprised your boss of what you’d heard,
you didn’t hear him as he fumed and stormed,
or know he was about to give you word
that he himself had just been so informed.

He couldn’t very well confirm the plot
because he didn’t know which one you knew.
He couldn’t tell you both because he thought
the one you didn’t know could still go through.

Your boss was to decide which team got nabbed.
Each unit had a fifty-fifty chance,
but both teams in the dorsal zone got stabbed
before your boss could kick one in the pants.

The fifty-fifty part they could accept
as long as the percentage stayed the same,
but once they thought the deal had not been kept,
they did not feel obliged to play the game.

So, whence the notion that the odds had changed?
Team A believed Team B was like Team A,
Team B believed the same, but rearranged,
and both extrapolated either way.

With perfect trust, the line would stay amid,
but nothing’s like that, and the slightest shift
will feed upon itself the way it did.
A gap in faith will widen to a rift.

The other guys are thinking much like us
while we are thinking, “Why not jump the gun?”
and we think that they’re thinking this way, thus
we do unto before we’re unto done.

Preemptively responding in reverse,
proactively reacting to the threat,
we’re all sure that the other guys are worse.
If we would do it, they would, you can bet.


©2010, 2016 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto I, stanzas 80-86 revised

Though far-fetched is the motive of our friends,
they hear of one that’s more peculiar yet.
Some people think it’s time our journey ends
based on their research through the Internet.

The voice that calls these folks is old and Greek—
a dean of mathematical affairs.
I’m sure you’ve heard of him of whom I speak
for something like the summing of the squares

Not only a good numbers man was he,
with theorems on triangles and such;
he spread his general philosophy
by preaching with a charismatic touch.

The years the faithful number since he died
because he differed from his fellow men
are that which they can evenly divide
by all the integers from one to ten.

Okay, I know you must be thinking, “Cripes,
this isn’t math, it’s numerology.”
Well, nobody said arithmetic types
are all completely rational like me.

Is their “Divisiblism” any worse
in essence than avoidance of thirteen?
Or saying a cashier invoked a curse
because three sixes line up on a screen?

Those other superstitions have not led
like this one, to a plot to postpone dawn,
but if our Mission's founders had not said
“Let’s hit the gas,” these geese would not have gone.


©2010, 2016 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto I, stanzas 58-79 revised

So Project SIRE’s delivered as replanned,
with little notice given of the birth,
and few will know for what the letters stand:
Survival In Rejuvenated Earth.

A couple pesky journalists protest,
but most have been conditioned to such waste.
What’s underwater can’t hold interest
with human copulation more the taste.

The founders know, however, that they can’t
rely indefinitely on their source.
They’ve built a most impressive cart, I’ll grant.
To pull it, though, they’ll need a mighty horse.

You see the rub: They have no guarantee
that they’ll have something to which to respond
unless they do what seems (at least, to me)
unthinkably immoral and beyond.

It seems that they can save what they esteem
if the event they’re certain is a threat
occurs before the light falls on their scheme.
To douse a flame, it must be burning yet.

Would it be right to throw a little spark
onto the pyre? Would they be justified?
Would it be worth some centuries of dark,
a hidden candle’s shelter to provide?

That someone would consider such an act
reminds me of the power of a thought.
It struggles for existence when attacked.
That’s animal behavior, I was taught.

Now, don’t infer a lack of self-control.
They know the cost and what they can afford.
Like you and me, they calculate the toll.
Like us, they measure risk and seek reward.

For all incentive systems to perform,
we need something to want or to eschew.
With critters, pain and pleasure are the norm.
As humans, we have moral values, too.

When one of these yet ill-defined things grows
to where some feel they lack the strength to opt,
we still blame those who hold it, for they chose
to let it move them, and they could have stopped.

But stop they not, and after some delay,
a few of them drop hesitating hints.
Some others listen; some express dismay.
They all come to, but guess what happens since.

Before they get a chance to try their hand
at tricking politicians to the brink,
a comet is discovered that will land
on Earth. We’re dying sooner than we think!

The founders are ecstatic when they hear.
They hadn’t really planned the whole thing through,
and this way, they’ve no punishment to fear.
The comet’s dust cloud will be cleaner, too.

The comet won’t receive its spotter’s name.
Astronomers have simplified that job,
though some suspect it’s merely out of shame
at having one that sounds so like ‘Hail, “Bob”!’

A letter and a numeral have we
to catalogue this ball of rock and ice.
The ‘J’ is for some mythic deity;
the ‘1’ must be an ordinal device.

So, will the founders have an easy go?
Not if someone can change the comet’s course.
The loop includes some founders, so they know
‘twill take a lot of raw atomic force.

The nation-states can scrape up some of that,
but to be sure, they’ll want to send it all,
and even though each power’s thought a rat
by others in the club, they make the call.

Accordingly, a plan is drawn in haste
to gather all the nukes from ’round the globe.
Some weather satellites will be displaced.
As well, a would-be astronomic probe.

I guess the founders aren’t so off-the-hook.
It’s probable that J-1 will be beat.
If they’re to clinch the deal, it starts to look
like they are back to practicing deceit.

It won’t be easy, too, despite their pull.
A billion eyes are watching every move.
Not only is this campaign wonderful;
we’re goners should it unsuccessful prove.

The founders in the program are but ten.
This ploy will need a larger enterprise.
They cannot try recruiting strangers when
the payment would be everyone’s demise.

Once more, our group has to manipulate
another one. The present set of dupes
can share their goal: most lives to extirpate.
Once more, our plot jumps through some flaming hoops.

©2010, 2016 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto I, stanzas 40-57 revised

The picture's drawn in two dimensions now.
Before we add a third to flesh it out,
let us consider something more of how
a can can have a life, lest you may doubt

There’s one more feature that these things possess:
an extra fancy autopilot mode.
The tubes can run themselves quite well unless
presented with an overriding code.

Not only can they fully self-direct
but they can make adjustments when they slip
and learn by watching those whose thoughts are checked
when their insiders take charge of the ship.

This trick requires heavy-duty brains
or silicon equivalents thereof,
more like our own than artificial strains
that work below on what was done above.

The tubes’ designers have to get this right.
They’ve found a way, but only their best guess.
Some variations in their creatures might
work better with environmental stress.

The robots that live long will reproduce.
The others—well, it’s just like in the wild.
More goslings for the strong and healthy goose;
the smarter parent has the smarter child.

Here’s how it works: Each carrier has two
computers, swapping watches in the nose.
The humans strapped inside create one new
By copying the one that’s in repose.

Both parents, then, have three brains when they breed.
The daughter gets the mashup from each set,
and all three carriers will thence proceed
with two brains and a third one coming yet.

This method works for many other parts:
the furniture and lighting, I suppose,
the pumps that work the legs, and all the charts
that tell what each piece does and where it goes.

The circuitry, while intricate as hell,
is reproducible by human hands.
Don’t tell me it’s impossible ’cuz, well,
we have to take the story as it stands.

Some folks on plausibility insist.
If that's your peeve, it's probably too late.
Some folks might hang up on something I missed,
like how this turkey reached the starting gate.

The likelihood that anyone will find
a planet that is livable at all
is very slim, and that is being kind,
so popular support is pretty small.

The people who imagined this thing, then,
are anxious to preserve its lower key.
They know they’ll lose their funding if and when
it’s argued as a public policy.

It’s easy for our group to get involved,
for some of them at space departments reign.
Their lack-of-resource problem now is solved,
and none who’ve been supplanted can complain.

They’ve new criteria now for the crew:
Each one should worship as the others would.
One-half a married couple will not do.
Though they don’t know it, they are in for good.

Prime physical and mental health is still
essential for the staff committee’s picks,
but military status henceforth will
be less important than the gender mix.

The books they read and copy now include
less for the mind and more to reach the soul.
As one book says, their spirits too need food.
What’s read alone just wouldn’t keep them whole.

Once these and other changes have been made,
and all the lot is tested as can be,
some seven of these tubes can be arrayed
beneath restricted portions of the sea.

©2010, 2015 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto I, stanzas 20-39 revised

Suppose a group of people, highly placed
are critically massed one afternoon.
They think, as many do, that we are faced
with nuclear disaster fairly soon.

They meet at a symposium, let’s say,
and hear respected scientists recite
the terrible predictions of the day
that fallout turns into an endless night.

They fear not on humanity’s behalf.
Some few will live to start the race anew.
And those who don’t have had their chance to laugh.
No creature lives forever in this zoo.

Don’t give them credit less than they deserve
I think you’ll see their values have great worth.
Their mission is no less than to conserve
what’s left of civilization on this earth.

In order to accomplish this, they’ll need
some healthy men and women they can train.
These individuals will be the seed
from which society will grow again.

The problem here: They can’t just advertise
for volunteers to live while others die.
For this to work, it must be a surprise.
It doesn’t take a genius to see why.

A similar endeavor’s what they need,
compatible with what they want to do.
Become involved, discredit those who lead,
then take control and work some changes through.

It just so happens something of the sort
is being planned and soon will be in place:
an underwater test of life support
in preparation for a home in space.

I’ll fill you in a little on the way
some astronauts will spend the coming year.
Were I a novelist I’d have to say
you’d need some details that you won’t get here.

The idea is to start the thing out small:
two metal cylinders set end to end.
Some airplane fuselages gave up all
except their noses so they could attend.

They’re separated by an airtight lock
to limit leaks in case of accident.
A passageway connects them to a dock
through which replacements and supplies are sent.

The tubes can be unhooked so they run free,
with six pneumatic legs ranged side by side,
a pair of which can grab things from the sea,
the other four remaining in their stride.

And if the project goes as well as planned,
they’ll add more vessels made from the same mold.
But only the materials come from land;
the new will be assembled by the old.

They’ll take a recently retired plane;
they'll do it like the ones already done;
they’ll set it on the water with a crane
to wait between the ocean and the sun.

Soon, one of the incumbent submarines
will surface right behind the empty craft,
and, after some preliminary scenes,
will plug her fore into the other’s aft.

A cockpit door will open to conceive,
and from the mother ship some will pass through.
One-third of her inhabitants will leave
to form one-half her daughter’s maiden crew.

They’ll take equipment, furnishings, and food,
books, papers, clothing, and accouterments,
all that they brought and all they’ll have accrued.
The daughter will be their new residence.

When everything is transferred they’ll detach
(I’m sure they’ll leave some time to say farewell).
A second ship will bring a second batch.
A second gamete makes a zygote cell.

This reproductive rite they will rehearse
to give the little colony its start,
The dwellers of this inside universe
now operate three cylinders apart.

There will be present, though, some dozens more
that won’t have been existing as they will—
those waiting for the colonists to score
by knowing which commandment to fulfill.

©2010, 2014 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto I, stanzas 1-19 revised

Jeff has taken it upon himself to record the first 19 stanzas of In the Next Life while playing his guitar and posted his recording on the internet. I am not entirely comfortable with being billed as a songwriter, particularly of a piece that alternates between ear-jarring chords and bouncy pop music, but he assures me that it will garner more attention to my work, and if it fails at that, I suppose it has done no harm. In any case, while working with him on this project I made some small changes to these stanzas, so I'll republish them:


CANTO I: THE CREATION

In which several concerned persons undertake to save the world by exploiting its impending destruction, and a sort of robot is employed to this purpose, being designed to carry people in hostile environments for extended periods.

Do you ever get the feeling that ‘free will’ is a joke?
—The Book of the Subgenius, Chapter 0

I watched a pair of cardinals today.
The hen and cock were never far apart.
They always stay together, experts say.
I must confess a warming of my heart.

Now, any male chimpanzee, so I’ve heard,
obtains what sex he can without regard
for whom he had before, unlike the bird
who, with his mate, brings cheer to my back yard.

So why is it that I do not possess
the nature of our closer relative?
I envy his uncurbed licentiousness,
and yet I’m like the finch in how I live.

Not only do I act that way; I’m proud
to be devoted to my only bride.
Fidelity is what we say aloud.
A lapse therein is something we must hide.

If like a chimp, I’d be so much more free.
With women I would share no more than fun.
I would not take responsibility
for what might happen after I am done.

Chimpanzees, one might say, don’t have our brains.
They haven’t near as much to learn, at least.
A mother ape, by instinct, merely trains
her young to gather food, just like a beast.

Our aptitudes increase as knowledge grows.
We gain a big advantage when we’re taught.
We think, invent, establish, and propose.
That extra parent’s handy, is he not?

Okay, that’s fine so far: We’ll say a dad’s
behavior is adaptive; that’s resolved.
But not too long ago, all men were cads.
How rapidly have families evolved?

Besides, if fatherhood were ours innate,
then men not brought up right would still behave
a lot more like the rest, whose chosen fate
is kin to volunteering as a slave.

That’s not to say, I should point out, that men
are under women’s orders. That’s too far.
It just seems rather self-defeating when
considering what our genetics are.

Could modified selection be the key?
Some values might have made their holders act
in ways that gave the holders’ progeny
a start in life that other children lacked.

Let’s take a value, then, down to its core.
What mechanism causes one to feel
that some things rate, and others even more?
Could it be tangible? Could it be real?

Well, if it is, we’d find it in our heads—
arrangements of the nerve cells, things like that—
a pattern that repeats, with varied threads,
depending on the neural habitat.

A pattern that’s translated into speech
or other media the pattern finds.
And as we argue, entertain, and teach,
we spread these patterns to each other’s minds.

What are these minds thus modeled by these molds?
They’re parts of organisms that have grown
from blueprints. Who wrote them? Who drew the folds
through which words pass as we play Telephone?

Some scientists are now describing genes
as patterns that maintain themselves through time
by changing raw materials to machines
that pass them on—a useful paradigm.

There might be meta-players at that game,
as certain kinds of thinking have been thought
to use the human mind to stay the same.
Perhaps this is the “is” that makes the “ought”.

I’ll leave it up to greater minds than mine
to tell us why our genes cooperate.
We’d have to view the whole ancestral line.
That’s more than I can handle at this date.

So, what I’d like to do today instead
is follow one of these things for a while
and see the possibilities ahead.
We’ll skip the past and turn another dial.

©2010 Louis A. Merrimac

In the Next Life, Canto IV, stanzas 38-40

Once in a while, I wake up and I hear
an unfamiliar air inside my head,
but when I move the tune will disappear.
(I need to keep a pencil by my bed.)

Now maybe someone thought of it before,
and maybe later on another will,
but what if it is heard again no more?
It has no chance an audience to thrill.

Oh, well, it’s no great loss. Unlike these rhymes,
my musical attempts are pretty small,
but I just like to speculate sometimes
about the way things might have been. That’s all.

©2013 Louis A. Merrimac